Category: folkies

Posted on

Boogy!

Bloganuary writing prompt
Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.
View all responses

Brrrrr, it’s been cold around here. It’s so cold that I’ve been having trouble getting enough exercise. There’s not enough snow to snowshoe on, too much snow to walk on the icy streets, and the malls are boring. My daily retreat to the shop is on hold because It’s so cold I’m having trouble warming it to a temperature I can work in.
Desperate to keep my exercise levels up, I have resorted to using the music on my phone to provide a soundtrack for my pacing, running in place, and dancing around inside. It’s me announcing my defiance of January! It’s not going to make a couch potato out of me.

I select a playlist and dance my way through it. It’s too cold and snowy for me to worry that a neighbor passing by might get a glance of me prancing around to Dire Straits, Billy Joel, or AC/DC.
The rock playlists they might understand. It’s when the folk stuff comes on that things get strange. I am sure the Kweskin Jug Band never saw their music as dancing material. But at about ten PM, I am putting down some hot moves to “Good Time Charlie” or “Somebody Stole My Girl.”
Now, my relationship with this style of music is not merely as an interested bystander who owns an album. No Sir. It sits at the very root of who I am. Or at least of who I was when I was a wandering ne’er do well folksinger back in 1965. Some of those songs were part of my performance repertoire.


I performed at local coffeehouses in New England, with Lou Carson as a stage name. One hot romantic night, a young lady I was enamored with couldn’t get my name straight. Her utterances wandered from Lou to Les and finally settled on Wes. Friends were so amused by this that they used it as my nickname. It became part of my stage name when someone announced me as Wes Carson.
Wes was so often used to signify me that for years, I was known in Maine and other parts by that name alone. If you mentioned Lou Carreras, there would be blank stares.


So here I am doing the boogy in the living room. As I boogy, my mind drifts to odd things like names, places I’ve been, and women who couldn’t get a simple name straight. I’m waiting for it to warm up enough to play with plants in the garden or get my sorry ass outside to drag around.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Posted on

Charlie

Daily writing prompt
Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?
View all responses

When I was a kid, my Dad was the Maintenance supervisor for a company in New York City. We lived in a basement apartment in one of the buildings. One of my earliest jobs was roaming the building the day we lit the incinerator and ensuring all the smaller trash went into the hopper. We sorted through larger items for their salvage or scrap value.

One week, one of the items found was an old, badly abused Stella guitar. My Grandfather had been a classical and popular music guitarist, and I had listened for years to family talking about his musical skills. Looking it over, my father asked me if I wanted it. Of course, I did.

Immediately, I began inflicting random noise on my family that I thought was terrific. My musical efforts, the guitar, and I were exiled to a small storage room. The expectation was I’d tire of noise-making in a week or two. Instead, I went to a music store, bought a copy of “The Folksingers Guitar Guide,” and began learning chords.

A Stella guitar, perhaps, can be made into a decent musical instrument. But by the time we found mine, fixing it was not possible. Seeing that I was serious about learning guitar, my parents gave me my Harmony Classical guitar next Christmas. Charlie rests on a stand no more than one foot from me as I write this. We’ve been together for over sixty years, played in coffeehouses and bars, and hitched all over. In the old parlance – we’ve been to see the elephant.

We both are just a bit tired and worn. But may still have some mileage left in us.

Posted on

Privilege

Daily writing prompt
How have your political views changed over time?
View all responses

I was strangely apolitical for a folksinger in New York’s Greenwich Village. While I had serious political views, I wasn’t singing or writing political material. Why? My goal was to enlarge the amount left in the basket after my coffeehouse set, not reduce the takings. So many others were singing protest, and I concentrated on my material and blues. 

I saved my politics for discussions and protests at marches. Not everyone in the audience wanted to hear protest songs set after set. Yes, some golden-voiced individuals could get up and warble a song titled Everything Must Belong Somewhere Equally, Or it’s time to take out the trash in Washington and make folks applaud. And pay! But not me. I stuck to Jelly Roll Baker, Salty Dog Blues, and that ilk.

Through the sixties and seventies, my political views expanded. I had difficulty with many on the liberal left. Not because I disagreed with their politics but because they could and did walk away from their positions on prejudice, the draft, race, sex, and poverty by exercising the privilege of their class, race, or ethnicity. 

It was that issue that eventually moved me not so much to the left or right but to the position of resenting entitlement and privilege. People like myself could not just go home to a wealthy suburb, have Uncle Bob find a job for us, or have Daddy pay for college. 

Many of my peers headed for the exits as they grew older and graduated from college. I realized my doubts about them were real. Privileged upbringing and no real hardships made it easy for them to wear their liberality as a badge they could take off when convenient. 

Because of this, I take Emerson’s admonition seriously: “There is an optical illusion about every person we meet.” 

Posted on

Travel

The other day, I was repacking some personal items and came across an old green woolen blanket. It had always been in my pack when I was on the road. If I were stuck out without shelter, I’d strike out into the woods. Out came the tarp and blankets. In a few minutes, I had an improvised shelter. In those days, I had no cash to pay for a room in a hotel or motel. It was either that or kept on hitching. 

Looking like I did and broke, I could not precisely impersonate a person of fiscal status or means. So it was a tiny fire, a can of beans, and a cold camp. 

While holding the blanket and recalling the “good old days,” my mind briefly considered what it might be like to hit the road again. Take off on a “frolicking detour” like my friends and I used to. A trip, perhaps, to warmer climes? After all, December in New England has a certain charm, but warmth is not one. 

I drew a blank on places I’d wish to visit in the American South. Places in the Caribbean called to me. After over fifty years, they’ve surely forgotten my youth’s excesses.

 While a trip to old haunts is always fun, I’m more likely to find pleasure, a bit of zest, and interest in someplace new. Seeing the different architecture and museums and trying local food is fun. 

But the key is to stay long enough to set down some shallow roots, meet people, form relationships, and develop affection for the place. This way, you’ve taken some of it when you move on or return home. It was part of the poignancy of being on the road: discovery, regret at leaving and abiding memories of people and places.

Posted on

Reading the House

Daily writing prompt
Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?
View all responses

I had a foundation of public speaking class in college. It covered everything but comedy. Well, it did cover funny anecdotes to use, but not actual comedy. If you are going to get up in front of an audience and perform, you need a grasp on how to turn an awkward situation into an amusing one. Or how to back away gracefully from dangerous situations by turning a mean drunk into a laughing one.

These days, there are videos on everything. But “in the day,” you watched how your betters and peers handled things. Starting in the lower tiers of Greenwich Village coffeehouses, you learned quickly what you could ignore, humor, and when to expect violence. 

Violence was rare, even in the bars. The bartender and bouncers were interested in keeping the drinks flowing in the bars and were adept at nipping issues in the bud. Maudlin audience members were famous for requesting tunes not in your repertoire. So you searched for something that fit the bill for them.

In fact, you didn’t last long in the village if you couldn’t “read the house.” It would have been so lovely if a gilt-edged guide existed, but there wasn’t, and you had to wing it.

I departed the folk music scene many years before taking the college public speaking course. Over the years, I’ve introduced many programs, delivered lectures, and made presentations. I still see a two AM crowd in Greenwich Village when I speak publically. I look for the drunk, the folks from uptown who are bored, and the smart ass who has a comment for everything.

It was good preparation.

Posted on

Chapters

Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite time of day?
View all responses

Once upon a time, I’d hit the sack around when most people left home for work. I wasn’t a night shifter the way ordinary people were. I was a performer and rarely got home before sunrise. Sets would end, and I might head to an after-hours party to listen to jazz or another folksinger play. It was part of a daily sojourn through a lifestyle most people will never understand. Come to think of it, I’m somewhat fuzzy on the details, too; that was a long, weary time ago.

Eventually, I decided that accepting trinkets exchangeable for more food and housing was a better life plan than spending all my time in coffeehouses and clubs. So an adjusted AM time, around seven, is my favorite time to arise, have coffee, cogitate my verititabilities, plan the day, and scribble a post.


My nineteen-year-old self would view me as some grey-haired ancestor, a fate to be avoided, a terminally dull creature, not hip, while I look back on a life full of chapters and see him: a rough but promising beginning.

Posted on

All-Night Diner

Daily writing prompt
Describe your life in an alternate universe.
View all responses

I went to the airport last night. Well, it has to be the first time in about eighteen years. I prefer to drive if it’s on the East Coast and I haven’t been elsewhere in a long time. A drive of fifteen hours is about my limit. So I can get some oh dark thirty driving in on these excursions.
You know, two AM and the mind starts wandering, listening to some live shock jock on the high end of the radio dial. The rest area caffeine is alive and well in your veins, and the creepy crawlie tendrils of memory come out to romp because you’re alone on a dark highway, and your mind begins to play with reality. 

It wouldn’t be necessary for me to describe it if you’ve been there, but I understand that a segment of the population flies all in one straight line and never looks left or to the right to check the flight pattern. Lucky you.


So one night, I’m on my way back from Philly, I’ve just crossed into Connecticut, and as I pass some little drive-past town, I remember stopping there one night in the sixties. There was a dynamite all-night diner there. It was the sort of place that served breakfast at midnight for late-night excursionists and truckers. I was on my way back to Boston and had been let off my last ride there with advice that I could find my next if I asked around. I got the ninety-nine-cent breakfast special with an endless cup of coffee. Someone asked if I could play the guitar or if it was a machine gun, so I pulled the guitar out and gave them a song. This was followed by about five more with breakfast on the house and about five dollars in tips for the music. An older guy with a horn in a case offered me a ride to the Boston area, and soon we were on the way.

About an hour into the drive, the horn player offered me advice. ” I know you don’t want to, but start thinking about what traveling from gig to gig will be like when your hair gets grey like mine. You’ve never made it to the top tiers, commanded big money, or been recorded. You live in a wreck of a studio apartment with your cat, and the wife moved out because you can’t keep a job.” He went on in tone for a while before lapsing into silence. Eventually, he let me off at a streetcar stop, and I watched the sunrise, waiting for a ride into town. Being about twenty, I paid little attention to what he said.

About 1969, I began to separate myself from counterculture lifestyles. Several friends had already departed life from alcohol and drug abuse, and I knew several performers who fit all too well into the type cast the horn player suggested. A violent incident almost cost me my life, and I began reconsidering my path. But what if?

And that was the alternate reality my mind began to spin out as I drove into Massachusetts, heading home. I had continued to make bad choices, my hair was grey as it is, but the nicotine stains still graced my fingers. I had moved on from folk music to calling myself a singer/songwriter. A self-produced CD of my material occupied boxes in the car’s trunk; for sale at whatever venue I was playing at. A long-term relationship had eluded me; it’s hard when you never know your schedule. But the new songs were solid, and I could finally see the future clear before me.
About then, I saw the other car pull alongside, and I looked toward that driver and saw the resemblance. I almost spun off the road then but continued to the little rest area ahead. I pulled over and almost forced myself to take a break and sleep for a few hours.


When I first woke up, I had a moment of uncertainty. Which one of us was I? No nicotine stains, no guitar in the back, and clear memories of the wife and home I was returning to. I wondered if that other Lou was doing the same else when. He might also be shuddering. His alter ego had surrendered his art for a bit of economic stability, given up unusual friends for a sort of middle-class stasis. He, too, might check to see if the old beat-up guitar was in the back. We had parted ways somewhere on the road years before and continued down non-parallel tracks. But there was a sort of kinship between us still. The beat-up guitar still had a place of honor in the house, scribbles of songs still populated the desk occasionally, and whenever I was asked to bring the guitar, I felt that old feeling as I did in my coffeehouse days. I’d pluck out the music with the same alacrity I had that night in the all-night diner.

Posted on

Baptism

Daily writing prompt
What’s the story behind your nickname?
View all responses

There’s a lot in a name. For some, it’s a measure of their identity, and for others a memento of the past.

Take mine, for example. A whole raft of people only knew me by the name Wes. Years later, on Facebook, they discovered that Lou was my real name. Of course, they don’t know how I came by the alias.

At one point, I was a member of a group of Folkies on Boston’s Beacon Hill. I was also a junior member, having only shown up in Boston a month before. Everyone else had impressive-sounding nicknames or alias. There was the Tea head of the August Moon, Captain Zero, Dutchie, English Joe, and Mike the Vike. I was the only one not replete with a handle, alias, or nickname. So far, I had avoided committing any blunder that landed me with an embarrassing name, nor performed some feat that gave a great descriptor like Captain Zero. It was a puzzle that my tribal seniors decided to address that very night.

While they were debating my naming, I wandered over to visit my friend Judy. Judy’s roommate Elaine was an airline stewardess, and the two usually showed up with five or six friends who worked with Elaine. Judy was like an older sister. I had to be on my best behavior around her and with any of her guests. That night I struck up a long and involved conversation with one of Elaine’s friends about how the folk music industry was changing.

You had to talk loudly to be heard above the crowd at the Gardens that night. But it became clear that although I had introduced myself to Sarah as Lou, she had not heard me. Eventually, her not knowing my name morphed into my being called Les. As we continued to drink, Sarah altered this to Wes. I was frankly too enchanted to correct her. 

Judy and Elaine gathered their brood at about eleven and left for home. Sarah grabbed me for a hug and a kiss and proclaimed loudly, ” Wes! You’re so sweet.” Sweet wasn’t what I was aiming for, but I saw them at their apartment on West Cedar Street before wandering back to the Gardens.

I saw them snickering as I walked towards our table ( now buried under empties and remains of bar snacks). I knew my fate was determined. As I sat down, the Tea Head smiled and said to Captain Zero,” The envelope, please.” he was handed a soiled cocktail napkin. ” the choices are Sweetie and Wes.” He handed me a beer and exclaimed, “Lucky for you, we determined that Sweetie would demean the tribe. So we now baptize you, Wes. They then poured their remaining beer over my head. We were then asked to leave the bar and not return until something more outrageous dimmed the memory of my baptism. A week I think.
The following day everyone in the household started calling me Wes. Eventually, I began to think of myself as Wes. When I enlisted in the Navy, Wes went onto my record as my alias and the name has followed me ever since. 

Names have consequences; they are not mere accessories in life. My nickname links me to a time when I traveled widely, sang and played in coffeehouses, and had outrageous adventures.

Posted on

Take One,

Daily writing prompt
What is your favorite genre of music?
View all responses

I was never a fan of the Childe Ballad form. Odes to lovers who turn slasher on the banks of the Ohio due to True Love and unplanned pregnancies were not my thing. My genres were blues, Jug band music, and, as it evolved, the singer/songwriter sort of fix on music. Add to this forays and deep dives into listening to Rag Time, Cool Jazz, New Orleans-influenced jazz, and pop. You’ll have to admit that I’m very eclectic.

My interests form a sort of weird spectrum. I was a folk singer in the sixties – mostly what was called a blueser among friends and associates from New York City’s Greenwich Village. But if you hung around the music scene there, you eventually heard almost all styles. You wound up having associates who played at jazz clubs, so you went to listen to their gigs. One friend edged away from “pure” folk into folk rock, so you listened to her material.
Being part of a scene meant not being an isolated individual. Little influences from other people’s approaches show up in what music you buy and listen to. There is a narrative flow as your interests develop.

You are exposed to the new and different. I get upset with those that insist that music be pure – Blue Grass has these elements and never includes those, Country must never have that, and the Lord forbids folk musicians to use electric instruments. Purity is the foe of innovation. Innovation is what keeps the music fresh and evolving. We do not get to sit on an imperial throne and decide what a particular genre should be; musicians and the folks that listen to their music get to do that.
What’s my favorite? I’m eclectic and enjoy almost all of it.

Posted on

Boom!

Usually, this blog steers clear of politics. After reading a few posts, you know I’m irredeemably liberal, but I don’t usually comment on direct political issues. “Back in the day,” I was the voice arguing for peaceful engagement over the violence espoused by more radical friends. I remember clearly how The Revolution was just around the corner in 1968. Somehow we got past that.

Right now, though, I think that many state governments, and the Supreme Court, are having a let them eat cake moment. And I worry that they may have made the revolution without intention. It’s an old problem of unintended consequences due to poorly conceived actions.

It might take years, but much hope and belief in progress for all sorts of minorities, the disenfranchised, and people experiencing poverty have ended in a spate of poorly thought-out “conservative” laws and opinions.

One of the things we learned about social justice over the years was that it wouldn’t come all at once, but incremental progress is needed to keep the ship of state underway toward the ultimate goal of equity. We now seem to be heading towards the reefs, and using an old cliche, many of our politicians and judiciary members are rearranging the deck chairs as the ship begins to sink.

I have not changed; I still favor peace over violence. I’ll vote as I believe and feel strongly about the power of the ballot in my state. But what about those jurisdictions where the franchise is threatened, Gerrymandered, or suppressed? Don’t think that it’s all going to stay quiescent forever.

A James Baldwin quote comes to mind: “One day, to everyone’s astonishment, someone drops a match in the powder keg and everything blows up.”